The Marigold Masquerade
by DameJoi
Summary: Some people thrive in disguise, some people yearn for it, and some people should never bother. People like the two anti-socials clumped together in a corner, conversing between themselves. One slender, elusive, urbane, the other more homely, less advantaged in the height department, yet nearly as dangerous.
1. Chapter 1

The Marigold Masquerade

_as told by Irene Adler_

Part I

Pearl tear-drop earrings. A viridian silk-wrap dress flaring out at the hips, sans straps or sleeves. The hem brushes the tips of polished flesh-colour pumps, not so high as to infinitely exaggerate one's stature, but just enough to gather a few glances. No necklace – the unaccented throat always applauds the décolletage more than any scintallant might – and sweetheart neckline which keeps me bound to a dip in the back.

Elegance.

My dark locks were harnessed by a marigold hairpin to the back of my head, tightly wound. I swiped a bit of black onto my brows and lashes and filled in the hollow below my cheekbones with the same tint as my lips.

I seized my phone and affixed it to a simple strap which snapped around my upper thigh. My most vital possession must only be housed near vital piping.

"Prepare your ammunition, Mr. Holmes," I said quietly, to no one at all, and turned on my heel towards the sounds of strings and murmurs.

The ballroom was exquisite. Generously glittered with golden accents, lit by hundreds of fractal flames kept in a dozen chandeliers, it was an aesthetic opus. I slipped on a simple ivory eye-mask and descended the staircase to join the chattering crowd.

"So this is what our taxes pour into? What rubbish," noted one refined gent as I passed through. Masks, from basic to ornate, moved around the floor with their attached heads and bodies. An orchestra spun out notes sewn to pitches, lead by a jumpy conductor in a flamingo mask. There were lords and ladies, mares and pigs, distorted visages with shining cheeks and broad smiles; jewels, feathers, bland, bold, bright, baffling. Those unmasked served appetizers on crystal trays.

Some people thrive in disguise, some people yearn for it, and some people should never bother. People like the two anti-socials clumped together in a corner, conversing between themselves. One slender, elusive, urbane, the other more homely, less advantaged in the height department, yet nearly as dangerous. I approached them without hurry.

His eyes fell upon me and I gave an impulsive smile. He stood stone-faced, rigid, giving nothing away but I knew that his blood flowed with intrigue. I knew, and it gave me such pleasure that my flesh prickled from my shoulders down. I inhaled the suddenly saturated air, slowly, and I was before him.

"Ms. Adler."

"Mr. Holmes."

A simultaneous salutation. How quaint.

We regarded one another for a long moment before Dr. Watson cleared his throat.

"And I'm John Watson, but, please, don't mind me. Just carry on as you are. I'll go drink away the feelings of neglect and abandonment with some frightfully lavish white wine. If you'll excuse me, then," and he slipped away towards the bar.

"No tie?" said I, still staring.

"I abhor them," he said simply. "Too restrictive. I can't think while I'm restrained."

"Oh, shan't we test that claim?"

He sported a white half-mask, reminiscent of Andrew Lloyd Weber's most celebrated antagonist. The guise failed to hinder the prominence of his cheekbones. He was striking. The rest of him was sorted out in formal midnight blue, not too imaginative but these sorts of decisions were never at the forefront of his brain.

I reached up and grazed his face with my palm.

"Unfortunate that you are so unparalleled," I noted, "in mind and appearance. It makes you all too easy to spot in a room full of camouflage."

"Was it not you who proclaimed that the problem with disguise is that it is 'always a self-portrait'?"

"Uncompromised memory, as usual. Shall we dance, Mr. Holmes?"

"I do not dance, Ms. Adler."

"Then follow."

I took his hands and situated them at my waist, then encircled his neck with my arms, and lead him to the center of the ballroom. We swayed for a moment; I was the woman in his arms and my heart became a faulty metronome.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I wanted to dance," I responded, resting my head to his chest.

"In the midst of a ball sponsored by London's police force? You're looking for protection. From what?"

I tucked my chin into his clavicle and I looked up at him.

"From whom."

"Whom indeed. You've clearly been living by less-than-comfortable means – ordinarily you would be fresh-faced and bathed each morning but this evening there are spots of makeup on your jawline which were not completely eliminated before you applied more moments ago, which indicates that you didn't have ample time from the point you arrived here to the time you prepared for this gala. You wouldn't burden yourself with keeping on your person a fragile fabric like the one you're wearing so you acquired it here, but it doesn't conform flawlessly to your figure so you've 'borrowed' it from someone in this hotel. It took a bit of fishing but you spotted your target in the lobby – a woman with a comparable frame – and as she departed you broke into her hotel room to garnish yourself with her finest accessories. This explains the unlikely scent you've spritzed on your nape, something forgettable and old-fashioned, nothing you would ever select on less restricted means, and the shades of your lips and cheeks, which are not perfectly compatible with your complexion, and we both know that you never settle for less than perfection."

"Just look at my choice of dance partner," I cooed, only slightly less awe-struck than my first encounter with him. "You're so sexy when you do that."

"Observation is a benefit of intellect, not of courtship."

"Your violin-playing must breed you your sense of rhythm. I'm half-surprised you aren't lending your talents to the orchestra this evening."

"I am something of a soloist."

"Not fond of duets?"

"Good duets are complementary."

"I can keep up."

"Irene."

"Sherlock."

"You're in danger."

"I seduce danger, Mr. Holmes. I cuff him to my bedpost and when I've had my way with him, I tuck him into my pocketbook. Makes for excellent portability."

"Your phone."

"My lifeline."

"Someone has taken it."

"No. Someone is threatening to. Though someone is always threatening to. It's safe for now," I reassured him, brushing my lips over his throat.

He stopped suddenly and my toe caught his instep, stumbling into his torso. He seized me and in doing so, gathered a fistful of my skirt. The whole of my calf exposed, his fingertips swept over the back of my thigh until they brushed over the band securing my phone.

"Sentiment, Ms. Adler."

I kissed him.

I lingered, and just as my lips fell away I felt his give just so.

"Goodbye for now, Mr. Holmes."

I turned and left just as the ballroom broke into applause at the finish of another song. The conductor turned and bent at the waist, his flamingo mask falling to the floor, exposing the equally pink hue of his cheeks. He scrambled for the mask and gave a sheepish smile before setting it back over his expression.

* * *

The room was slightly damp and mostly cool as I walked in. Instantly my gaze fled towards an open window, and a small note of panic bounced from my heart. The curtains swayed with the wind, lifting up and out. I peered over the frame and saw no one.

No one beneath the bed, behind the door, or in the closet. I noticed the bed sheets and blankets had been re-tucked and the pillows spruced and fluffed, and chuckled gently. Housekeeping. But why would they leave the window open?

And when I spotted what was on the dresser, I knew it wasn't a maid who was responsible for the draft.

A deep scarlet rose, newly plucked, sat in just in front of the mirror on the vanity. Its blossom was selected intently, wide girth and many petals, fragrant even from a foot away. I grasped it and settled on the edge of the bed, smiling.

"Why Mr. Holmes, I never took you for the romantic type."

I brought the flower to my nose and inhaled deeply. Several grams of pollen accompanied the scent, and I coughed as they colonized my lungs.

As I gazed down at the gift, a feeling of dread overcame me.

Not pollen.

Powder.

My head began to swim. I stood, dropping the rose, and nearly stumbled. Drowsiness overwhelmed me. I fell back onto the bed with the cream-colour ceiling swirling before me.

My hand reached back and freed the hairpin from my hair. I felt the top of the comforter before slipping it into the newly-folded crest. My head fell to the side. A blur moved towards me, a voice spoke in low waves of sound.

Pink.

My eyelids sunk down.


	2. Chapter 2

The Marigold Masquerade

_as told by Dr. John Watson_

Part II

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"What's that on your mouth?"

"What's what on my mouth?"

He reached up to pat his lips with his fingertips. A bit of something burgundy sank into his prints.

"Wine," he clipped.

"Wine?"

"Yes, wine."

"You've not had a single drink."

My eyes looked between him and Irene Adler's shrinking figure and a spark jolted from my temple.

"Is that her lipsti–"

"I think it's about time we stepped out of this soiree, don't you?"

Exasperated – prying always lead to either exasperation on my part or his – I swallowed the rest of my Chardonnay and set it on a nearby table. Sherlock had already started for the staircase. I followed suit. Textbook Sherlockian exit. If only there were such a guide.

He had just started on the first stair when he was accosted by a beguised Molly Hooper. She was always so thrilled to see him and it was always a sore sight to watch.

"Sh-Sherlock! What a coincidence. I thought surely more people would attend a masquerade dressed as the Phantom but you're the only match I can find. Suppose everyone's wanting to be clever and such these days. Everyone's an original. I thought I was a sure bet for Christine. Do you think?"

Note to self: never vie for the affections of a sociopathic consulting detective. Especially not one hot on a scent. Her scent.

"Quite, Molly. Goodnight."

He moved to step around her when she caught his arm.

"Won't you dance with me, Sherlock?"

He retrieved his limb curtly.

"Can't. Had one too many sips of the cider, can barely keep up with my own feet, let alone anyone else's. John's sober enough to carry a rhythm, though. Makes for at least a swell shoe-scuffer. Goodnight!"

More like a swell scapegoat.

Sherlock took off and Molly's eyes followed after him forlornly before falling onto me. They seemed to glisten with the unmistakable glint of 'Well, I suppose you'll do.'

I half-smiled and extended my palm.

"May I have this dance, Molly Hooper?"

* * *

When I caught up with Sherlock he had situated himself in a large chair in the hotel lobby. His mask was gone and his face was drawn in hard lines. Eyebrows sewn together, lips taught, nostrils flaring just slightly. He had gone to his mind-throne.

I removed my hedgehog mask and sat on the sofa across him.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" I said.

"Watch for a distressed woman nagging a hotel hand," he replied, searching.

Sighing, I conformed, surveying the area as well.

It was always uncomfortable imagining Sherlock in romantic pursuits. He is nearly inhuman in nearly all avenues, and love seems like a wrong turn with "Do-Not-Enter" signs plastered up and down the alley. Or perhaps, more accurately, they are labeled "No Outlet." A fatal bear claw clamping the flow between logic and reason.

To him, love is invasive. Love is ivy, working its way into the missteps between the bricks of your being. Love restricts the mind and anything that disables his most glorified asset is not a toy with which to be tampered.

Trimmed weeds only embolden roots.

I was called from my discourse by a fussing woman, stabbing the floor tiles with her heels and screeching at the clerks behind the front desk.

"I insist on having another room prepared for me _immediately!_"

"Mrs. D'ordures, I'm afraid that tonight all of our rooms are booked due to an event being held in the conference hall."

"I didn't ask you to smother me with excuses, I asked you to carry out my solution. Someone has broken into my room, soiled my clothing and stolen my jewelry. Do I look like someone who settles for cheap accessories to you?"

"Well, no – "

"Correct. The total damages so far have amounted to well over tenfold the cost of a night's stay in this place. The way I'm being treated is simply barbaric. Have the authorities been alerted?"

"Well, no, not yet – "

"Must I perform all of your duties for you?"

She began to dig through her sizeable purse, presumably for a mobile before Sherlock approached her.

"Mrs. D'ordures. Sherlock Holmes. May I have a word?"

* * *

"Are you with the police?" asked the woman as she slunk into a seat adjacent to Sherlock and me.

"With, yes. Now as I understand it, someone broke into your hotel room, wore some of your garments and lifted a few pricey possessions?"

"Yes. This hotel should have stricter security implements in place. Atrocious handling, really."

"Please detail to me the items which were stolen."

"It was just one so far. A marigold hairpin given to me by my husband. He won it at a charity auction about a month ago – "

"And where is your husband now?"

"A business trip in the States. He's always traveling."

"Of course. And where are your room card-keys located?"

"Right here, in my bag."

"May I see them?"

She fished around in that abyssal accessory for a moment before brandishing a leather wallet. She opened it, thumbing through the first few folds.

"They're… they're not here."

"I presumed not. And you were issued two, correct?"

"Yes. But why would someone steal both of my keys?"

"Someone wouldn't. Some-two would."

"I… I don't follow."

"Don't worry," I chimed, "he's always at the end of the coaster while the rest of us are stuck on the trolley."

"Two separate individuals took one of your keys, Mrs. D'ordures. That either makes you very irresponsible or very distractible. I'm going to lean with the latter because you neglect to return your card keys with such swift changes between hotels."

I earnestly believe that in that moment, Mrs. D'ordures first experienced shame.

Her blush became the lighter shade on her cheeks. Face contorting with aggression, she snapped at Sherlock.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"You had quite the colorful assortment of card keys and plane tickets tucked in the back-most flap of your wallet. It would seem as though you've been hopping all about Europe without having a chance to empty your wallet, or your purse for that matter. Tonight you were engaged with a man who has an affinity for red wines."

She stood with such velocity that I nearly fell backward.

"Mr. Holmes! How dare you imply that I was cheating on my husband!"

"I was only implying that with whomever you were rendez-vousing got close enough to you at the dinner table to knock over a bottle of red wine, which then spilled into your bag and sent you into something of a fury. After all, your husband gifted you that bag. You wouldn't want him to suspect foul habits so you stole to the restroom to wash it out, in vain. The wine had already leaked through the bottom and left something of a blaring stain."

Mrs. D'ordures was aghast.

"But I've changed my bag! How could you know about the wine stain?"

"You didn't change your wallet. So you came back to the hotel to swap purses and you were intending to go back out until you encountered the disturbed scene in your hotel room. How wide was the door opened when you arrived?"

"J-Just cracked," she said, her voice mimicking her description.

"Right. Just one more question for you then, before we examine the room. Do you adjust your makeup while on the toilet, Mrs. D'ordures?"

"Sherlock! A little tact please," I offered dimly.

Mrs. D'ordures flushed and nodded quickly.

"Then that explains how one of your keys was stolen. Come. Let us take the elevator to your room."

Mrs. D'ordures was shaking a bit as we stepped into the shaft.

"Which floor is it?" asked Sherlock, standing behind her.

"Fourteen," she responded, staring wide-eyed at the doors.

Sherlock reached around her with his left hand and pressed the corresponding button, and as he did so, knocked into her, causing her to drop her purse.

"Clumsy man!" she seethed, bending down to reclaim her goods, "that's the second time this has happened to me today – oh."

Sherlock's lips drew into a smirk.

Vast arrogance in a tiny gesture.

"Do you remember who it was that bumped into you earlier, Mrs. D'ordures?"

"It was hours ago… All I remember is that he was dressed in formal attire, but then again so are most of the men in this place."

"Is that all you recall?"

"Yes, I believe so," she said unsurely.

"Think."

"I – "

"Harder."

She swallowed, closing her eyes.

"He was tall. Clumsy. Or at least I thought he was since he knocked my purse down. He had a quiet voice and spoke lowly."

"Yes? And?"

The elevator dinged on the twelfth floor, and the elevator froze. Its doors opened to two familiar faces, Lestrade and Anderson.

"Sherlock!" cried Lestrade, smiling wide.

Anderson's grimace held just as much girth.

"Can't chat now, sorry. Stuck on a faulty elevator," he said as he pressed the 'Door Close' button, "oh look, there it goes again. Wish me luck!"

The doors closed on two puzzled expressions and Sherlock was back to interrogating Mrs. D'ordures.

"Come on!" he ejaculated, "There must be some distinctive detail lurking in that mediocre mind of yours!"

"Sherlock," I rebuked, rubbing my eyelids with my thumb and index finger.

"Not good?" he asked.

I shook my head.

The doors stretched open on the fourteenth floor, and with the alerting ping, Mrs. D'ordures' eyes shot open.

"A twig! There was a twig in his pocket!"

"Are you sure he wasn't just mildly happy to see you?" I offered.

She ignored my jab and looked at Sherlock.

"A twig? As in the sort from a tree?" he asked, staring intently at her.

"Yes. I only glimpsed it for a moment when he kneeled down to help me pick up my belongings," she said, "but I'm sure I saw a twig."

"How very curious," said Sherlock, stepping onto the fourteenth floor.

Mrs. D'ordures' room was chilly. Equipped with a wardrobe, vanity, bed, nightstand, television, kitchen and bathroom, it seemed like your typically accommodated dwelling. Her wardrobe door was open as well as the window.

"Did you open this window?" inquired my comrade, scoping the pane.

She shook her head.

"When I walked in, I went straight to my wardrobe to find another purse to use. I noticed that the room seemed a bit disheveled and that the vanity was upset. That's where I kept the hairpin."

Sherlock plucked something from the frame and held it out to her.

"Does this earring by chance belong to you?"

"Yes. I didn't even notice it was gone. I hadn't checked my jewelry stow."

"It's replaceable, isn't it? Just like your green dress."

"My green dress?"

"Check your closet."

She dashed over to verify the missing contents of her closet. I approached Sherlock.

"You don't think that – "

"Yes. She's inadvertently become tangled in a hostage situation."

Mrs. D'ordures whipped around in shock.

"I'm a hostage?!"

"Not you, Mrs. D'ordures. A woman by the name of Irene Adler."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you so much for your kind reviews and subscriptions… I'm startled and overwhelmed by everyone's response to this story. It feels so wonderful to connect with people who appreciate this marvelous show, and don't mind some interpretation. :) Thanks again everyone. Please enjoy!

* * *

The Marigold Masquerade

_as told by Irene Adler_

Part III

I woke to the sensation of a fingertip trailing my jawline. It was careful, measured, like a plastic surgeon preparing to fashion a new facial landscape.

"Oh, oh," urged a fragile voice, "she's awake. Get the water."

My tongue prodded around my cotton cheeks for a source of irrigation.

"You must be thirsty, Darla. Drink."

Darla?

Light saturated the room. I blinked excessively. When my pupils adjusted I observed a man kneeling before me, smiling, with tinted cheeks, grey eyes, and short, minimally styled fair hair. He could not have been past his third decade.

He held a glass of water to my lips.

My wrists strapped to the wall behind me, I stared at him.

"Open your mouth," he instructed.

"How do I know," I started, then realized that forming words was akin to agony. I paused. "…it's not poisoned?"

"Drugging someone twice in one day is a bit tawdry, don't you think? Drink."

He tilted the glass so the water spilled down the limits of my lips, which absorbed the tonic like a litmus strip. Reflexively, I let the flow fill my mouth. My throat lurched in gratitude and mechanically I swallowed. He angled the glass with my consumption until drops remained.

"She was thirsty," he narrated, setting down the glass.

"Who the hell are you?" I spat.

"My name is Phillip Mender, Darla, and I engaged in reciprocal recreation with your husband, Dean D'ordures." He smiled again, almost sympathetically.

Assured that I would choose to borrow from _this_ woman's wardrobe.

"I'm not Darla," I said.

"I'm not foolish," he said.

"Listen, Mr. Mender, as incomprehensible as this seems, I broke into Darla's room a few hours before you found me there and I was simply returning a few items I'd temporarily lifted."

"Quick-thinking cat, aren't you?"

"Yes, but I'm not fond of fabrication when my life is at risk."

His eyebrow jumped.

"I never said your life was at risk."

"You didn't have to."

He grinned, the gesture summoning crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

"Well, now that we've zipped through the prologue, let us begin."

He stood. I watched him as he pivoted on his heel and stepped towards the wall behind him. All of the surfaces in the room were white. Freshly so, it seemed, as I detected a sharp scent stirring in my nose. A few tools stood against the wall he stood before, including a bucket of paint, a funnel and some paintbrushes. He kneeled down to pry the paint lid from the can. As he set it on the floor I noticed its obsidian glint, reflective like the husk of a beetle.

"Don't stir too much," he advised me. He dipped the tip of a brush into the can and swept it over the pasty wall. The black seemed to bellow. He crafted slow, careful curves, cocking his head back at me every few moments.

Well this was quite the entertaining situation, wasn't it? Of all the persons I'd pissed off, all the souls I'd manipulated, I'd been strapped up and threatened by someone who didn't even know who I really was. That's a piping plate of irony and a heaping scoop of karma for you.

Luckily for me, I knew a thing or two about slipping through bonds.

I looked over at my wrists. They were secured by steel, in something that looked like reimagined handcuffs. I gave a quick tug. The foundation was sound.

"I'm a lover of the arts, Darla," Phillip began, "a dilettante, if you will. I dabble in expressions of soul. I collect. I construe. I exhibit."

"Fascinating," I offered, inching my cuffed hand towards my ear.

"I catalogue each and every one of my pieces. I've something of a museum, you see. My home is rife with bits of history. Captivating, picturesque echoes of time. I spend hours commemorating each one. It's really something of an audition to make it into my collection. It's dreadfully prestigious. And so," he breathed through his teeth, "I know. When something. Goes missing."

His calm bearing skipped a beat before he found the track again.

Phillip turned around and faced me. I stopped fidgeting.

"Your husband was the last man to share my bed before my marigold hairpin vanished. Typically I'm a first-class judge of character, but admittedly, I was slightly impaired that evening. I suspected him so highly that I sought him out. When I knocked upon his door, he feigned estrangement, and just before he barred the door on me I heard you call his name."

He rotated and resumed painting. I wriggled the earring from my lobe. Pressing it into the wall behind me, I bent the length of it. It twisted a bit too far, and to remedy that I stuck it in my mouth.

He glimpsed at me again.

"And that was when I knew he had gifted my poor, unassuming hairpin to his poor, undeserving wife. I was understandably vexed. Vehement. I saw the expanse of all things dismal in humankind that day, Darla. And that's when I decided."

He regarded his canvas once more.

I bent the earring to the proper angle with my teeth and lurched it towards the tip of my tongue, transferring it to my fingers. A mental sigh escaped me.

"You're retrieving the hairpin?" I asked.

"Oh, no, Darla. My marigold hairpin has been _tainted_. It has been coated in scum, handled by atrocious fingers; bounced off the backs of oily swine. I've been stripped of a part of me."

I bent my fingers over my palm and slipped the tip of the point into the lock gap.

Steady, now.

"And so surely you must understand why you're here. Mr. D'ordures raped my universe and I'm restoring the void, _AND I. WOULDN'T. DO THAT. IF I WERE YOU_."

His voice panicked, fizzled, seethed; it brushed the tops of his pitch range and slithered back down as he faced me. His eyes were wide and wild, jaw taut, chin trembling.

I halted.

His body went through a strange sort of cadence of calm. Like a book toppling over on a shelf, his body unwound in segments, features collapsing to a world sans agitation.

Phillip reached down and plucked a thin paintbrush from his stash.

He advanced towards me.

"She's misbehaved," he muttered, taking long strides.

He kneeled before me once more.

I could see a bead of sweat pinching through a pore just above his temple.

He seized my hand and grappled with my fingers until the earring fell free.

"Oh," he breathed, "she's clever." His eyes bore through me. "Clever indeed."

Without warning, he struck through my ribcage with the brush end.

I shrieked. The puncture had breached my lung; to breathe was to induce frenzy. I gasped with every inhale.

"I'll leave it there for now. But if you try anything else, I'll take it out and let you suffocate while your lung wells up with blood. It's a pity I've forfeited my detail brush. Now I have nothing to pronounce the fine wrinkles of your face."

He stood, and behind him I could see the fringes of my face painted on the wall. I was forging no ordinary expression; my interpreted eyes seemed to be abounding in terror, mouth agape, face stretched beyond comfort.

I could only hope he was as meticulous with portraiture as he was with preserving his obsessions.

Sherlock.

Hurry.


End file.
